Mark’s mind was still on Hercules as he finally arrived at the station. And Mel, who was obviously blaming herself for what had happened. He shouldn’t have been so short. He’d meant to apologise, but then he’d received another text from Lisa, informing him that DCI Edwards wasn’t impressed by his absence, and Mel had slipped back to the workshop while he’d been replying.
At least it looked as if Hercules was going to be okay. Thank God for Jade, who’d certainly gone above and beyond her babysitting duties, even offering to pick the dog up from the vet’s later while Mel tried to rescue what was left of her workshop and organise a glazier. Jade had only been with them ten minutes and already Mark was beginning to wonder how Mel had managed to keep all the balls in the air without her. She had though, allowing him to get on and do what he had to do. And by way of appreciation, he’d acted like a dickhead as soon as there was a blip on the domestic front, as if it was a major inconvenience to his work agenda. He’d left her in the workshop, plucking pieces of smashed sculpture from a pool of coagulating blood. She’d said it didn’t matter when he’d asked her about it, but she hadn’t looked him in the eye. She’d dragged her hair from her face, and kept her gaze fixed firmly on her task. Not sure what to do, what he could do, and running desperately late by then, he’d brushed her cheek perfunctorily with a kiss and said he had to go. No doubt Mel would quite like the freedom to sail out and leave someone else to pick up the pieces sometimes too. He really was going to have to apologise.
Pushing through the security door into the main office, Mark realised he needed to change the dressing on his hand. At first, he hadn’t even realised he’d cut it while he’d been tending to the dog. But then, there’d been so much blood he’d have been hard pushed to identify any of it as his own.
‘Crisis on the home front again?’ DCI Edwards asked drolly as Mark headed past his open office door to the incident room.
That one was wearing a bit thin. Sighing inwardly, Mark offered an apology. He’d definitely been juggling crises on the home front at one point. With Mel ill, and everything falling apart around them, he’d taken to self-medicating, the odd nightcap growing into one too many. Mel had known it, which is why she was wary of him drinking late at night now. And Edwards had known it, reprimanding him on several occasions. He’d been right to – Mark’s mind hadn’t been on the job.
He’d lost sleep after messing up on a case, failing to notice one of his team hadn’t followed the chain of custody, meaning evidence could have been contaminated. The vicious little shit who’d walked free had offended again, inevitably, kicking an old man almost to death because he’d refused to part with his phone. The old man had passed away a week later. Mark would never forgive himself for that. And Edwards, it seemed, would never let him forget it – which Mark couldn’t blame him for, but he didn’t need it, just as he didn’t need Cummings constantly winding him up.
He hadn’t lost too much sleep over his confrontation with Cummings. The man openly harassed women. He was a kerb-crawler. If anyone was a disgrace to the uniform, Cummings was. Mark couldn’t prove it – yet – but he suspected Cummings had recently pocketed proceeds of a drugs bust he’d thought wouldn’t be missed. The package he’d seen him passing to a sex worker had looked suspiciously like crack cocaine, which basically meant Cummings was fuelling the woman’s addiction. Whether in exchange for sexual favours or information, Mark wasn’t sure. Either way, the man was pond scum, end of.
Mark noted the cretin looking him interestedly over as he walked by his desk. He would swear the man was trying to goad him into losing it. Mark’s guess was that Cummings knew he was on to him, and was trying to provoke Mark’s ‘emotional volatility’, thereby making any accusations he made against him questionable. Mark’s only real hope of nailing Cummings was to get enough evidence to make sure he was at least suspended pending investigation.
‘Blimey, hope it wasn’t a domestic,’ Cummings commented behind him.
Shaking his head, Mark smiled sardonically. With supreme effort, he ignored Cummings and walked on. He had more important things to do right now than waste time on that prat.
‘What have we got?’ he asked, once in the incident room.
‘The blood is definitely Daisy’s,’ said one of the team, confirming what Lisa had already texted him. ‘She had an appendectomy about a year ago, so we were able to get a match from the hospital. I’m thinking we’ll need to call the forensic experts back in.’
That wasn’t going to be news the parents would welcome. Mark sighed disconsolately. ‘Do the parents have an explanation for the stain?’
‘She cut her foot in the kitchen a couple of weeks back, according to the mother,’ said Lisa. ‘The husband corroborates her story. We’re still gathering information from possible witnesses, relatives and friends.’
‘Thanks, Lisa.’ Mark smiled wearily. ‘Anything on the garage CCTV footage?’ he asked, ignoring Cummings, who’d wandered in with nil sense of urgency and was now slouching on the edge of a desk.
Cummings, though, wasn’t going to be ignored. ‘Funny you should ask that,’ he cut in.
Kneading a temple, Mark glanced towards him. ‘Would you like to enlighten me?’ he asked patiently.
‘I’ve just been checking it,’ Cummings said. ‘I noted a car cruising past in the direction of the house.’
Lisa was obviously as impressed as Mark at that really useful piece of information. ‘It’s a road, Cummings,’ she retorted acerbically. ‘It’s what cars travel on.’
Cummings glanced at her indifferently and then looked back to Mark. ‘At four o’clock in the morning or thereabouts,’ he went on leisurely. ‘On three separate occasions over three consecutive weeks prior to the girl’s disappearance.’
‘And?’ Growing more irritated by the second, Mark urged him on.
‘And it looked familiar,’ Cummings said, holding Mark’s gaze.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, hurry it up, Cummings,’ Lisa snapped. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
Cummings’ mouth curved into a slow smile. ‘It’s a silver Audi Q5,’ he said, and let it hang. ‘Registered to one DI Mark Cain.’
Thirteen
MELISSA
‘She’s fast asleep,’ Jade said, coming into the workshop. ‘Do you need a hand with anything here?’
Mel glanced up from where she was mopping the last of the blood from the floor. It seemed to have been smeared everywhere. Mark had been saturated in it. Some of it, Mel had realised when he got back from the vets, was his own. She’d fetched him a bandage and tried to help him wrap his hand, but he was rushing. Late. Keen to be gone. Mel couldn’t blame him.
He hadn’t said much about her sculpture, which had been smashed to smithereens. But then, that was understandable. He’d hardly have been taking stock of the damage while desperately trying to stem the flow of blood from the dog. The sculpture didn’t matter. It was important, to her, and it being irretrievably broken before she’d had time to make a cast was obviously upsetting. It was the statue the Garden & Homes store were considering stocking nationwide. But it was insignificant in the great scheme of things. Poor Hercules.